Hit it hard. A simple request. First time?
Charging batteries at night off the Great
Thatch. We were both filthy with diesel grime,
crude oil, acid flashbacks. We had to wait.
We sat up top. We passed the zigga back
and fro; enthralled with each Uncanny Queen –
Sappho’s term for starlight. Waves made low thwack
-lap noise in the dark. You made low obscene
noise, too. Smut puppet. Slush galore. A tongue
curling you up. Translucent trails all glow
in the waves. Surge dripped from your thighs. Hit it
hard. You clung to the sub’s drunk hull. I clung
to your soused conch. Writhing wraiths. Purge and blow
while Saint Elmo’s Fire played across your clit.
It would be grand to run away to sea in a submarine built for two (plus cats). Great Thatch is a derelict of an island, part of the British Virgins in the Caribbean. It’s named after Edward Teach (the pirate called Blackbeard). St. Elmo’s Fire appears as blue lightning, all squirm-dazzle in the rigging of tall masted ships, heralding an approaching storm.